where do we go from here
by therewithasmile
Summary: But sorry isn't right and goodnight is too close to goodbye. / An anthology of different pieces, vignettes, and oneshots all strung together by one narrative. Healing, learning, growing - together. M'gann and Conner, post canon.
1. Chapter 1

_I watched young justice. Bad idea. _

_The idea behind this fic is going to be sporadic. It won't all be from Conner's point of view, and they won't all be little drabbles and oneshots. It's going to a bunch of things. Conversations and texts and emotions and different styles and lengths all jumbled into one anthology, confusing and a pastiche but all moving towards Conner and M'gann healing, learning, and growing - together. _

_Each piece is canonical to one another. Time in between is indeterminate and up to interpretation. _

_. _

**where do we go from here?**

Her eyes linger.

They have for a while now, and he has since lost count of the days since it actually _meant _something again. Because for many months it hadn't - or so he told himself. Because it _didn't_, and it was him, all too familiar with her and her essence and her being, that was only taking it as more than it was. Because if he were to assume it was something more, it would bring everything back - the ghostly touch in his brain that left tendrils of ice somehow not cold, but the anger that blossomed at the pit of his stomach at the realization.

But that was long since over. Her eyes continue to linger.

And he let them.

Because he isn't sure _what _they are, not anymore. Not since the fight and the yelling and the touch and the breakup_, oh the breakup,_ followed by months of radio silence and static and _cold. _Real cold, this time, not the kind that left pleasant shivers like little frosted kisses along the side of his head. Not since the confusion and the confiding and the stupid pride he felt when he knew _she _came to _him _and not the other, a stupid pride he later felt guilty and _ashamed _of because it _damn_ meant nothing now; he had made sure of that. He let them because she came clean and she's stopped and she's still as beautiful of a soul as always, and their bodies touched and their fingers twined but then she slips away, from his grasp and from his mind, a shyness that is both sad and full of longing to the point he can't discern who it even came from to begin with.

Yet, her eyes linger.

He meets her gaze.

He sees it in her eyes, her face: a softened lip, just a hint of movement as the corner twists upwards. A small flush in her cheeks that she never quite got rid of, even after the four years they were together - and the one when he couldn't call her _his_. Small dimples emerge from green skin, the grooves and pores and freckles all familiar under his thumb, under his gaze, and he realizes that in that one, short year, her face hasn't changed. It would still be smooth to the touch, only wrinkled by upturned eyebrows and her bright smile, because she was M'gann; the one he knew he loved with all his life.

It hurt. A different kind of hurt from before. No longer stinging but somehow just as deep. He wanted to reach outwards, to be able to reclaim what he'd long lost, to truly know that the smile was only saved for him and no one else and that the look in her eyes, the tender softness of her gaze, was because of him. Too long had he gone seeing that expression - different, but it was still _that _expression - aimed beyond his shoulder to the one he _knew _was behind him. It hurt, because it was so _easy _to just extend an arm. Accept her. And it hurt because he couldn't.

He couldn't do it.

Not yet.

He looks down, just fast enough to miss her eyebrows falling and that upturned twist instead curve in the opposite. His name is on her lips and there's a small part of him that can appreciate how it's verbal and not _mental_, but it too dies on her mouth. He can hear the rustling of fabric and a small sigh pass through her lips.

And then he hears the sound of her footsteps, amplified so that they might be merely a foot away from him - when in reality, they go the other way.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey."

It's a little surprising at first, the softness of her voice. He hears the fabric beside his seat shift before it groans with a new weight. A part of him lingers on the fact that she's trying - her voice is different externally than otherwise, but he'd grown used to both. It frustrates him that, after all this time, nothing has changed: he didn't need to look to know her eyes weren't on his, didn't have to _see _to perceive the nervousness in her heart. For one on one conversations may have lived between them before, but since the last time they talked there was still a _barrier _between them.

Where the barrier lay now, he didn't know. And part of that realization scares him.

He lifts his eyes to her - and he lets a small breath out when he meets her profile. She only looks ahead, then down to her lap. And he follows, but upon studying her clasped hands for perhaps a moment too long, he drags his gaze back to her.

There's a weightiness in their silence, but it's different from before. It's not awkward. Maybe that's the only thing he can really focus on: for their snatches of moments together _have _been. Like a fog pressing down on his chest, but lifted now. He wills words to his mouth but none feel quite right, instead like molasses on his tongue. He settles for silence. It's more comfortable, less forced.

She probably could tell, too, for she says nothing. Once or twice he can see her muscles flex and her fingers twitch, but she sits, not quite relaxed but not uncomfortable, either. There's an ache in hisown arm, an impulse he thought he'd quelled a long time ago. Yet the phantom urge to lift it and drape it around her frame exists. He resents it a little, but it's a far cry from what else could be happening, so he tightens his grip around his knee and breathes.

"Hey."

Her eyes snap up at him. Part of him wishes he didn't but he _did, _and her attention is suddenly on him and he's not sure how he feels about it all. But he knows one thing - speaking was easier. Less weighty as it once was - when he had to be cautious of the extra pair of ears that often tagged along with her. Not that they were a problem before, not that he cared, not that they were a problem _now; _either way some burden had definitely lifted. It probably had been lifted, too, since she'd insisted on him coming with her to Rimbor. In the snatches of silence, it'd been easy to pretend that their awkwardness lingered. Because this strange stasis is a combination of confusion and anticipation, neither of which he particularly cared for. So he pretended it was still there: the tension, the _attraction_, because it was easier the other way.

But now, it's all too apparent that he'd been trying to convince himself otherwise.

She speaks, and the subject is so trivial she might as well have asked about the weather. There's a hint of a giggle in her speech and it doesn't take super hearing to know she's speaking too fast. Speaking too fast and too animatedly and for a short second he's back - five years ago - to when they were but stutters and glances and sighs. He responds too, with that same, strange sense of uneasy easiness.

They fall into an easy conversation, really - nothing substantial and nothing dire. But with every word, every syllable, something festers beneath his fingers. Every line is a new expression, a new emotion he memorizes once more - absorbing the crinkle in her cheek, the dimple against her lips. He's relearning her, the twinkle in her eye and the smile on her face that she never managed to rid herself of. And her voice, though matured, is flighty, not unlike a bird eager to stretch its wings.

She's sixteen again, and he's barely born.

When the words slow and the syllables trail, there's something unsettling in the _comfort _of silence. He realizes this, and his gaze falls to his hands wrought on his knees. She too, falls silent - and there's nothing to talk about. Nothing at all, because the apologies have come and gone and it was done, it was _done, _and they're no longer sixteen and _nothing. _And yet the pull is still there. It may always be there. Until they figured out what they are and what they are becoming it will _always _be there, the lingering feeling like a magnet trying so desperately to attach itself back to the surface. Struggling and struggling against the bonds they'd placed themselves.

He hesitates. It's never been hard before - even the first time he'd uttered _sorry _was so sheepish and strange and already full of feelings he at the time couldn't comprehend. But _sorry _isn't right and _goodnight _is too close to _goodbye. _The seconds stretch and he feels his brain scrolling for what to say next, what to _do _next, but it keeps drawing on blanks as the strange silence settles. He can feel it from her, too: hesitation, awkwardness, searching for words that just a few moments ago had come so easily.

He shifts a little, moving his weight from one side to another. She's still but her eyes flick upwards. Hesitation slows her, but before that can take over her fingers flex against her knees. "Going to bed?" She inquires, her voice suddenly low - matured, as if everything had caught up to her.

Even then, there's a lot he wants to say. Again and again words and phrases pass through his brain, so close to spilling from his lips, but he reigns it in. "Yeah," he says instead. It's kind of sheepish but also unapologetic.

She watches him once more. And with every passing second, emotion begins to flood him, at first anticipation but then suspense, something akin to both excitement and dread and _emotion _overwhelms him.

"See you tomorrow," she says.

_See you tomorrow. _

See you tomorrow isn't a goodbye, but it's a promise - and when accompanied by the hint of a smile on her lips, he can't help but to breathe. He may look twenty two but he really was sixteen, and by that - he was _nothing_.

But he pushes those thoughts away. He pushes them away because she's _there _and she's _smiling_ and she hasn't said goodbye.

"See you tomorrow," he breathes.


	3. Chapter 3

_This was the last time_, he'd told himself, as he looked behind him and saw her. In someone else's arms. It _hurt_ \- he didn't know why he kept doing it. It should've been Pavlovian by now because _every time he looked, it hurt so damn much, that he could've and should've stopped - _but it was a different brand of pain, not one caused by fatigue or even a wound, it was pain deep inside his core that _ached, _and for some reason, he kept coming back for more.

_This was the last time_, she'd say to herself, as she'd catch his eyes for a second - a silly _second - _and flames would reignite in her body. Whether it was self-consciousness, burning shame, or the dying embers of what was once a love that had consumed her wholy, she didn't know. She didn't bother _differentiating. _Whatever it was, it was trivial, because she wouldn't have to feel it. She wouldn't have to if she didn't look - and it wasn't hard not to look. Other people, other things, other obligations, obscured her view. So why did she look at him once more?

_This was the last time_, he'd thought angrily, as her voice raised in retaliation as they fought once _more _over the reason why they were through. It wasn't like they hadn't gone there before, in fact their very breakup was due to an argument not unlike this one, and as she'd insisted he was stubborn - well maybe he _was _stubborn, and as he too raised his voice, yelled the summation of his feelings and how they were _through_, the hurt in her eyes still wasn't satisfying. Still wasn't right. As he heaved for breath and she suddenly shrunk, tears in her eyes, _nothing was right. _But the time for apologies had long come and gone, and though he knew whose bed she'd be going to for the night, he also knew that this fight was not over. Not while it still felt wrong, not when, during those moments of anger and yelling and screaming, it felt -just a little - like the passion they once had for each other.

_This was the last time, _she thought to herself, as she - almost shamefully - asked Dick about his whereabouts. It wasn't exactly shame that she felt, nor revelation that drove her. If anything, there was a shred of hopefulness, a _tiny tiny _shred of hopefulness, that she herself didn't even think she deserved. She wouldn't ask again - she'd get resolution but she _wouldn't ask again. _Her conviction only grew stronger at Dick's response, a new, ugly - yet resigned, feeling to only add in the palette of emotions smattered across her psyche. It should've been the last time that his personal affairs mattered to him - and yet it only took one, fleeting glance, to have it all return. And it returned so fast she felt as if she could hardly breathe.

_This was the last time, _he thought, as he quickly disengaged his arms from her all-too-familiar frame, as she, too, unwound herself with a quick cough. The worst part is that it felt right, _achingly right_, especially after that semi-shy, unfairly coy smile she gave at his confirmation that he and Wendy were nothing. And as much as he loved it, wished he could live in those brief seconds, if that, over and over, that was all there was to it. That was all there _should've been _to it. They had grown apart, have become different people, and though they've reached understanding, two puzzle pieces couldn't be forced to fit together. He only knew that too well.

_This was the last time, _she'd thought as quietly as she could, which was an ironic statement considering she'd just used her telepathy in the first place. It still felt wrong, doubly so considering who it concerned. They'd begun to reclaim speaking terms, but their small talk was nothing but that, small talk, and it was a momentary lapse of judgement as she spoke her goodnights through her mind. She'd slipped up before, with other people, but with _him, _it was so much different. She blew it. That was it. His response should be, if he granted her one at all, angry, repulsed. Affronted. And that would be it, the last time, because she was horrible and ignorant and hell, he probably _did _deserve someone better than her. But then his voice, surprisingly quiet, rang out in her head, and for another brief second, she didn't know if she should laugh or cry.

_This was the last time, _he'd thought to himself, but he knew that all the previous times had been lies, and with his current streak, this one would be too. But it didn't matter. He sat down beside her and, as it broke yet _another _one of his promises to himself, he felt drawn to her side once more, like a dangerous magnetic pull from which he couldn't escape. It was probably all in his head, he figured, as their TV flickered on, and their movie continued. Movies were easier. They didn't really have to talk. It was easier than before but still strange, and their silent conversations had ceased to exist save the one instance nearly a month ago. But she'd visibly relaxed by him, even allowing herself a laugh at the on-screen antics, and before he knew his finger skimmed hers.

She froze in her tracks. She so desperately wanted to turn. But she didn't, for she feared what she'd see there - and she didn't want to go through it all again. It'd felt good, brief, like a streak of fire that had spread like ice along her veins, but it was gone, as fast as it'd come, and she missed it. Once again she was reminded of how much she missed his touch, and she missed _him_.

_But this was the last time. _

(How they both wished it were a lie.)


End file.
